Calling the Old Man Out
by OhSoDeadly
Summary: Connor's truce with his father was starting to grate on him. The two were constantly at odds. And then the bastard started asking about his mentor. One-shot.


They were only a few miles down the trail when Haytham asked him, "Where did you get your training?"

Connor was not a talkative person. Even growing up in Kanatahséton, he had been a quiet youth. The village had been far more accepting of him, however, even to the point where he was a half-breed, one part his mother's native blood, the other part something more foreign than they could imagine.

Then he had seen the world beyond his little valley, the white men who ruled it and seemed to think they could do whatever they pleased. The war that was raging between the colonists and the British. He had offered his help, in order to fight the Templars who had burned down his village and killed his mother. The Templars were manipulative and power-hungry mongrels seeking to use the fight for liberty for their own ends. Such had been the state of things.

Except now, he had a long list of regrets and uncertainties. And of course, his father, the Grand Master of the Templar Order in America. Prying into his designs, seeking a way to corrupt him and turn him away from the ways of the Assassins, who fought for freedom. Only things did not seem as clear as they had before. Pitcairn and Johnson had believed in the righteousness of what they were doing. Haytham seemed no less devout, if somewhat more contemptuous of the rebels.

It was worse than annoying. It was starting to make him feel panicked. His reasons for fighting this war were becoming less and less certain with each passing day. The reassuring weight of his tomahawk had become a burden.

But he still had supplies to track down and Benjamin Church to kill, so he turned his mind away from such matters and replied curtly, "No-one of consequence." He could not be sure Haytham would send someone after Achilles if he were to learn of the old man's existence. After all, his father had made a truce him with him, not Achilles.

Haytham sighed and kneaded his face. "There's nothing to fear, you know. There will be no dread retribution upon whoever mentored you: the able-bodied Assassins in the colonies were killed years ago. You can give up your protection of whatever battered old wreck took pity on you."

Anger flared in him, as it so often did when his father was there. The man's very presence made him feel half-focused and impetuous. "You know nothing of him! Do not presume to-"

His father's eyes sparkled with glee. "Ah, so it's a _he _then, is it? Female Assassins were more common here than you think. I'm racking my memory to think of the few dregs who might've escaped the purge, years ago. Hmm."  
Connor bit back a foul retort and focused on the path in front of him. It was well travelled, but that did not mean a pack of wolves of a bear might waylay them. He almost hoped something would happen, if it meant that his father would cease his musings.

"There was Jonathan Coxsbane of Boston, he tried to kill Charles Lee, much the same way you did. No no, it can't be him. He died when Charles put a bullet in his brain."

Silence.

"Then perhaps Norman Gullsmith? I sent Thomas to hunt him down but he seemed to elude us at every turn. Though at the time he was already neck-deep in the drink and debauchery. No doubt he passed away in some rat-hole of a tavern by now."

The names of dead Assassins were hard to hear, but he kept silent.

"Terence Wilder? He set sail for Quebec not long after we took power. Hopefully one of our Order up there took care of him. Samuel Macintyre? He fled west, taking little with him but a small caravan and servants. No doubt he's perished by now, this land is a dangerous place." Haytham hissed in frustration. "I can't seem to recall any others."

Connor tried not to visibly relax, but the slightest dip in his shoulders gave him away. Haytham hummed, then casually said, "Was it Achilles Davenport, by any chance?"

Connor gritted his teeth, and let his hand drop down, ever so slightly, towards his tomahawk handle. An obvious hint if there ever was one.

"It was, wasn't it? Now there's a turn-up. I thought the old bastard had died years ago. From grief, after his family passed away-"

"Murdered!" Connor rounded on his father, and gave him a rough shove. "You murdered them! Do not try to disguise your lies!" Connor did not know the full story, but it was patently obvious that the Templars had had a hand in the death of Achilles' wife and son. What else would explain the diagram in his basement, the one with his father's smirking portrait at the head?

Haytham attempted a condescending smile, but he could not hide the regret in his eyes. The same regret that had been there when news of Ziio's death had reached him. "When you're older, you'll understand. Connor, I had no choice. Achilles refused to back down. I was willing to let him slink away, like the others, but he would not see reason! We had to be methodical about this-"

"Methodical, "Connor sneered. "Is that your thinking? No doubt the same thinking you used when you burned my village and killed my mother!"

"I told you, _we did not harm your people!"_ Haytham bellowed, face contorted. "We did not do it! There must have been others in the valley that day! You have to-"

"Enough." Connor's anger vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Resignation replaced it. That seemed to be a common occurrence these days. "I do not want to hear your excuses. But know this: if you do not leave Achilles alone, if you persist in your purge of the Assassins, I will kill you. And whoever else follows you. That is my promise to you, _father._"

The two men stared at each other for a moment, faces hard. Then Connor turned his back and began jogging down the path. Haytham gaped for a moment, then fell into his own rhythm, trying to catch up to his son. "What are you doing?"

"We are making no progress like this, "Connor shouted over his shoulder. "Keep up if you can, old man!"

Haytham ducked his head, so that Connor would not have to see the small smile that had come over his face for a moment. Perhaps it was better like this. Just the two of them, no words between them. Only the road. Only the hunt. Perhaps, like this, they could learn to co-operate. Co-exist, even.

But it was not to be. 


End file.
